


Watson's Daughter

by DuccleMinded



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cute, conan doyle!Holmes, pseudo father/daughter relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:50:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuccleMinded/pseuds/DuccleMinded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being away from London for several years, Sherlock Holmes, now in his upper 40's, bumps into the late John Watson's 10-year-old daughter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. She has John's Eyes

The tall man couldn’t have been more than 50 years old, even if his eyes told otherwise. As he strolled down the streets of London, he peered up at the sky. An overcast day; one that threatened rain.

Children ran around him, knocking around at his ankles. One of them, a small boy in a little grey jacket and cap slammed into the man so hard that he fell over. The man turned and went over to help the boy back up.

“Hey!” the child squeaked, “watch it!”

The man frowned a bit. “You’re the one that bumped into me, young man.”

“Young _man_!!” the kid’s voice seemed to get even higher. He frowned and took off his cap. Long, braids of dirty blonde hair fell out of his cap and immediately the man was embarrassed. The child was a girl.

The man chuckled to himself. “I’m sorry young miss. With your hat, you looked quite like the other gender. I apologize.”

The girl tilted her head. She wasn’t used to accepting apologies from grown ups; usually it was her who had to apologize to them.

“Um, it’s okay,” she said, pausing uncertainly. All of her friends had scampered off and she looked around confused for a minute, trying to secure the hat back on her head. Now that the braids had fallen out, it was harder to put back on.

“Here,” the man said, taking the cap from her, “may I?”

Shyly, the girl handed her cap over to him and he helped her tuck in her braids back. He smiled at her and she smiled back at him.

“There we are!” The man announced, stepping back. “Now then. Proper introductions, yeah? Do you have a name?”

“It’s Sherlock,” said the girl, patting herself on the head.

The man froze for a minute, and for the first time in her life, the girl doubted her own name, something, possibly one of the only things she knew to be fact.

“What's wrong?” the girl asked.

“You can’t be Sherlock,” the man said, his dark blue eyes scanning the girl intensely. “That isn’t a girl’s name…”

The ten-year-old was cross. She put her hands on her hips and looked up at the tall man with as much defiance as a pre-teen could give.

“What do you know about it?” she glowered.

And then the blue eyes came alive for just a moment. Usually the child was obvious to subtle human emotions (she didn’t understand them quite yet). But the eyes on this man were so bright and so vivid she just couldn’t ignore them.

“I know all about it,” the tall man said, taking a knee to be eye level with her. “Your name is very important, isn’t it? People that you don’t know probably get a good joke out of it too I’m sure. You’re mother is no fan though and she probably calls you either Mary or Marian which is your middle name. Your father named you after his greatest friend and the best consulting detective he ever knew. Am I wrong?”

The little girl shrugged. “I don’t know if they were friends,” she said.

That hurt the man more then he knew she intended.

“Daddy never talked about it much and Mum never pressed him.”

 _Talked. Pressed._ The tall man suddenly realized that she was speaking about her father in the past tense. As if something had happened…

Without thinking about it, he placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders and squeezed them. “Is your father still around?”

The girl looked stricken. “If you knew him… Then you would know…”

The man stood up and backed away from the girl. He held his hand out for no particular reason. It felt the brick wall behind him. He leaned up against it.

“No, I-… I don’t know. I haven’t been in London for… Quite some time…”

The girl looked down. “He… He died, sir. It’s been almost a year.”

She watched the cobblestones beneath her and wondered when it was the last time it had rained. When she looked back up, the tall man was in a sitting position, his entire body leaning up against the wall. One of his hands was at his forehead, but the other one dangled down over his knees. He was staring straight ahead. He was making no noise. But even like this, the girl could tell…. He was crying.

She stood and watched him cry for a while. If she had truly understood who the man was, maybe she would have been perturbed. But as it was, she was used to this. Mother cried all the time. Her father was her mother’s whole life. Even as a wee little girl, it clear as day to see. The girl placed a hand on the man’s face. She didn’t wipe the tears off, but she stopped the others from falling down.

“People say that I have my dad’s eyes,” she said. She smiled politely at him. “Mummy always said I did anyhow. What do you think? Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock Holmes looked over at her with a start. How could she know?

Little Sherlock smiled. She looked away shyly. “Look, Mr. Holmes, just because Daddy didn’t like to talk about you doesn’t mean that other people didn’t. You were quite famous after all. Daddy had all the stories. He used to tell them to me when Mum was too tired to stay up. He didn’t have to tell me that he cared about you. Anybody could see that he did. Immensely. And you cared about him too, or else you wouldn’t be so sad.”

Her little hand still lay on his cheek and Holmes was still kneeling there, too stunned to move. Finally, he mustered up the courage to smile and touch her cheek as well.

“You do have his eyes,” he said to her. Then he pointed to the left center of her chest.

“You have his heart too,” he added.

The girl beamed. It was the best compliment anybody had ever given her. The two figures stayed like that for a time; one kneeling, one standing, both at eye level.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said the tall man finally. He put a hand out to the young girl. This time, she took it immediately and warmly.

“I’m Sherlock Marian Watson,” she said.

“It’s an honor, Young Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, with a warm and genuine smile.


	2. Where Have You Been?

Watson knew that she couldn’t just bring this man home to her mother. From the way her father used to speak of him and run off with him, and how annoyed her mother got, and how recent her father's death still was, she could just tell it was a bad idea. Holmes knew this too, so he was content with just walking the streets of London with her.

The two people looked really nothing alike. Sherlock Holmes, although much older then his prime years, was still very tall and very lanky. His bright blue eyes had dulled only slightly with age, saving for the times when something excited him. His hair was still dark with streaks of grey that only helped to make him look older then he was.

Sherlock Watson was of average build. Her eyes were a dark brownish grey that didn’t quite match her age. She had long hair that was often tied back in braids, as was the fashion. Her family was well to do, and the girl never really went hungry. She still had a bit of baby fat around her face and arms. Her mother had told her more than enough times that it would go away. Watson was worried that her mother cared about her weight more than she did.

They walked side by side. Watson avoided the need to hold somebody’s hand. She used to do it with her father all the time, but this man was not her father, and she was afraid of offending him if she tried. She did struggle slightly to keep up with his strides. They were long and Holmes, who never usually had to deduce children, was slow to realize that he should slow down.

“So,” Watson said, after a time, “how come I’ve never met you before? You’re my namesake and everything and you’ve been just a legend till now.”

Holmes gave a half-smile. “It’s a long story,” he said.

Watson looked over towards the bakery on the other side of the street. She pointed at a table. “We have time, don’t we? Mum isn’t expecting me home until supper. Who is waiting for you?”

Holmes rolled his eyes. “Another dear friend.”

Watson titled her head and didn’t have the knowledge of the old Baker Street life to guess. So Holmes told her.

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“Who is she?”

Holmes laughed. “A mother, in many ways. But she will be fine if I am a little late. She always has been.”

They crossed the street briskly and Holmes got them a table. To any other passerby, it just looked like an older father with his young daughter out to a late lunch. They ordered their food and Watson sat on her knees on the chair.

“So where have you been?” Watson asked.

“Well,” Holmes started. “I think you should know that your father and I didn’t live together for very much of our partnership. In fact, he met your mum on our 4th together. They were married soon after that. They moved in together and I stayed at Baker Street.”

“Do you still live there now?”

“I haven’t for a while, but I do now, yes,” Holmes explained.

“Where were you before?"

“All around Asia, but Tibet mostly,” said Holmes.

“All by yourself?” Watson’s face looked worried and Holmes was touched.

“For some of it, sure, but not for all of it. I wasn’t alone in Tibet. A friend of mine was teaching English there in a monastery and ran into some trouble--”

“Was it a lady friend?”

Holmes was put off by this at first but soon regained his breath. “-Uh, ah… Yeah. Yes, it was.”

“Was it Irene Adler?”

An eyebrow was raised. It wasn't the original Sherlock's. Holmes could have laughed but he was too surprised and the question caught him too off-guard.

“You sure ask a lot of questions for a girl your age.”

Watson seemed proud of that statement. “My dad always said that questions were very important.”

“ _Answers_ are important,” Holmes countered. “And get your elbows off the table!”

“Yes, but you can’t get any answers if you haven’t asked any questions, now can you.” Watson calmly got her elbows off the table and placed her hands neatly in her lap. “Well?”

The tea came for Holmes and the lemonade for Watson. They sipped quietly, each of them studying the other.

“Ire-… Mrs. Adler and I spent a couple years in Tibet and then decided to do some traveling,” Holmes continued after a while. “We’re both older and it seemed like a nice break. To pretend to have someone who cared about… You know, this conversation is a little mature for me to be having with a seven year old.”

Watson frowned. “I am almost thirteen!”

Holmes rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” Watson admitted. “Almost twelve.”

Holmes shook his head.

"Eleven?"

“Try ten and a half,” said Holmes, smiling, "at most."

“Look,” Watson said, embarrassed, “if you wanted a friend so badly, why didn’t you just ask my dad to go with you? You guys were supposed to be best friends, right?”

“Yes, well,” Holmes cleared his throat, “nothing is really that simple.”

“How come?”

“It just isn’t.”

“How come it isn’t? Dad would have gone with you.”

“I know he would have,” Holmes smiled to himself. “I know, and that’s why I couln’t ask him. Your mum was about eight months pregnant with you. I couldn't take him away from that. Plus, after what happened…”

“What happened?”

“You see, quite a long time ago, I gave your poor father a very necessary yet intense scare.”

“Oh, I know that story!” Watson said, almost leaping out of her seat. “He thought that you threw yourself into a waterfall. And then you never came back until three years later.” Watson gave Holmes a face then. “That was quite rude.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows. Lord knew that he had been through so many emotions those three years. Who was this kid telling him off!?

“It was for his own good, you know. And I explained that to him! There were so many people looking to hurt us. I couldn’t do that to him, I couldn't put him in such danger. It was easier if I disappeared.”

“And leave my dad alone?”

“I didn’t leave him alone!” Holmes said, “he had your mum. And then later on he would have you as well. He had plenty of people who loved him.”

“He missed you!” Watson said, remembering back to all the stories that her dad had told her and the look on his face when he got to the fall.

“ _I did too!_ ” Holmes voice strained, “I missed him every day!” Holmes stopped there for two reason. For one, he heard his voice getting louder then he wanted and for two, he realized how current the sentence he said was.

He swallowed and avoided the look on Watson’s face. He didn’t mean to hurt her and he didn’t want to see the outcome.

“I miss him every day too…” she said, quietly.

Holmes looked up. She wasn’t crying. She was a very particular child, he decided, much more like John then he had previously thought. Strong, yet self contained.

“I lost my father when I was very young as well,” Holmes offered. He peered up at her and saw that she was listening. Holmes laughed half-heartily. “He wasn’t a quarter as good as John was, but... It’s still quite hard to loose somebody at your age.”

“Yeah,” Watson said.

Here the two of them again fell into silence. Finally Watson looked over at Holmes.

“Mr. Holmes?” Holmes looked up. Watson sighed.

She didn’t want to, but it was getting late and she knew she had to go home. Her mother would be looking for her and then she’d have to explain where she had been and that would be real trouble. Holmes knew everything in a glance. 

"Alright,” he said. “Come, and I’ll walk you.”

Holmes footed the bill and the two got up to cross the street. Without thinking about it, Watson reached over and took Holmes’ hand. Holmes almost jumped at the touch, but then forced himself not to. He took her hand in his and they crossed the street.

“You can call me Sherlock, you know,” Holmes started to say, “if you wanted.”

“But my name is Sherlock,” Watson smiled. “Although nobody really calls me that.”

“What do they call you?” Holmes asked.

“You were right about Mum,” Watson grinned over at her new friend. “She calls me Marian. It’s after her Mum. My friends call me Shay.”

“I refuse both those names,” Holmes stated simply. “

And I refuse to call you Sherlock,” said Watson, not to be outdone.

“Hmm,” Holmes said, in a playful manner, “it seems that we are at a stale mate.”

“What, um,” Watson treaded cautiously, not sure how to word this next sentence. “What did… Did my dad used to call you Sherlock?”

Holmes smiled wistfully. “Your father used to call me Holmes. And I used to call him Watson.”

Watson scrunched up her face. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Holmes nodded. “Plain and simple.”

Watson thought about it for a while, rolling the last names around in her head until she finally liked the sound of it.

“Can I call you Holmes too?” she asked.

“You may,” Holmes said, official-like. “May I call you Watson? And when I am feeling cheeky, Young Watson?”

“You may!” Watson squeaked. “Are you always feeling cheeky?”

Holmes grinned. He felt happy for the first time in a long time. 

“Ah, Young Watson,” he said, “you yet to have any idea.”


	3. Watson's Wife

Sherlock Holmes insisted on walking Sherlock Marian Watson back to her place. This was not something that Watson had seen coming and she vehemently insisted that she could walk herself.

“I’ve done it loads of times,” she said, arms crossed. “You’re just walking me home because I’m a girl.”

“No, I’m walking you home because you’re my friend,” Holmes insisted. “I make sure that all my friends get home safely.”

As the two rounded up to the Watson residence, Holmes couldn’t help but be impressed. It was a far cry from their flat at 221B. The house was very cozy, yet spacious. It had pretty white colored bricks, a patio, and even yard. There was a tire swing and a small little playhouse that was painted to look like the real one.

“Dad made that for me,” Watson said when she caught Holmes staring at it.

Holmes was impressed. “I had no idea he was much of a carpenter,” he admitted.

Watson giggled. “Well, that’s his third try…”

Watson’s giggle was so cute and innocent and the image of John trying to build a little house was so funny that Holmes couldn’t help his chuckle. The chuckle turned into one of his more rare, boisterous laughs and though it startled young Watson at first, she ultimately found it hilarious. It made her laugh even harder. 

It was probably the noise that brought Mary Morstan-Watson to the door. It swung open and there she stood, looking a little less then pleased, but not unkind.

“Marian! Where have you been!” Mary reached over and took the girl into her arms. “You’re late. I’ve been worried sick!”

She looked up just then and noticed the man standing there. She was about to thank him politely for returning her daughter when she noticed who he was. Her eye grew wide and she involuntarily drew Watson closer to her.

“M-mr. Holmes…” She said, scarcely believing her eyes. She blinked a couple times as if the figure in front of her might dissolve into someone else. “Can it really be you?”

“Mary,” Holmes said. He took her hand in a very gentle manner and kissed it lightly. “It’s been too long. I’m sorry I haven’t called here for a while. I’ve been… Occupied elsewhere I’m afraid.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have…” Mary paused for a minute.

Holmes just stood where he was, not asking for entry or looking awkward. Sherlock Holmes _never_ looked awkward

“Mum?” Watson said, voice muffled by Mary’s skirt. “I can’t breathe.”

Her voice shook Mary out of her thoughts and she remembered her manners.

“Please, Mr. Holmes,” she said, getting herself and Watson out of his way. “Come in. I was just going to serve supper. There’s more than enough for you.”

 

The dinner was excellent. It had been a while since Holmes had anything homemade like this. Mrs. Hudson’s cooking, though she tried, was always mediocre at best, and Holmes had been traveling so much lately that a well-made, family meal came as a welcomed change.

After the dinner was taken away, Mary called Watson over to her.

“Do you think our special guest would like some ice cream?” she asked, smiling at her daughter.

Holmes was about to tell the ladies that he hadn’t had ice cream in decades, but he couldn’t bring himself to when he saw the look on young Watson’s face.

“My favourite is rocky road!” she said, a large smile covering her entire face. “What’s yours?”

Holmes smiled as well. “Rocky road sounds divine.”

“The shoppe is still open,” Mary said, going into her coin purse and handing some money over. “Why don’t you run down there and get something for all of us.”

Watson was so excited about the ice cream that she hadn’t even realized the obvious rouse. Holmes liked to think she would have if the errand hadn’t involved sweets.

“Mary,” he said as soon as he heard Watson’s little footsteps go down the patio steps, “I didn’t know… John… I thought things just got busy with you and the baby… And I was moving around so much, I thought maybe he was having trouble finding me… I never meant for--”

“It wasn’t anything you did,” Mary said immediately. “You lead the danger astray, it was just…”

Mary sighed. She failed to blink away the tears and they fell in tiny drops down her face. Holmes took a silent breath to check himself. No crying allowed.

“If I may ask?” Holmes said, slowly and quietly.

“Heart failure,” Mary said, avoiding eye contact. “In the later years, he was having trouble breathing. He and his fellow doctors tried to eliminate the problem multiple times. Once in a while, he would get better, but he always relapsed. In the end, Mr. Holmes, his heart was just too big. It was twice the size of a normal heart.”

“He never said anything in his letters,” Holmes said, frowning. “It was stupid on my part, I should have read closer. I should have known better. I should have seen it.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Would _you_ have done that? Had the roles been reversed?”

Holmes met her eyes for an instant, as if he were going to protest. Then he thought better of it and looked down.

Mary just nodded. “I thought so.” She paused for just a minute before adding. “I take it that you’re not being followed anymore?”

Holmes shook his head. “Not at all,” he said. “That chase ended a long time ago.”

Mary continued to watch him, silently asking for an explanation and Holmes found himself silent for a minute or two. He knew catching up was one of the hardest things to ever do and ten years was far longer then a mere three.

“Well,” Holmes began, “I was right about Moran’s men. Closet to us then I thought. I didn’t initially want to leave the city, much less the country. I had everything planned out from Baker Street. That plan faltered rather quickly though. I didn’t anticipate was the cooperation they had from Lestrade’s men.”

“Lestrade!?” Mary seemed horrified. “Please tell me the detective inspector had no part in this.”

“No, no of course not,” Holmes almost laughed at then. “You’d be fooling yourself if you think he was that clever. No, no, it was his crew. Not all of them, mind you, just them, mind you. Just a handful. Lestrade was too dull to notice or else he would have put a stop to it.”

Mary was still shaking her head. “I don’t understand,” she said, “what did they have against you two?”

“When John published the majority of his work, it revealed them to be twats,” Holmes said simply. Mary looked hurt and Holmes had to add, "of couse everybody on the force knew that, but John's writing was, as always, very poplular and very well written. They didn’t like that much. Of course they weren’t about to go harming the two of us, but they certainly wanted someone else to do it for them.”

Mary looked worried but Holmes gave them a reassuring wink. “They were taken care of, dear Mary, you need not worry.”

“I cannot thank you enough for that," Mary said. There was another pause before she asked, "you… You are here staying in London for a while this time, right?”

“For as long as I can, I should like to think.” He gave a small chuckle. “I am a getting too old for these adventures. I’d like to plant firmer roots here if I can.”

“John mentioned that you bumped into Irene Adler in your travels,” Mary said with the same sly eyebrow raise her daughter had given him. “If you’re talking about roots--”

Holmes colored, but only slightly. Again, he _never_ looked awkward.

“I was not talking about those particular roots.” Holmes said, clearing his throat. “Besides, Ms. Adler is not in Europe. We met up in Asia. She needed some help with some trouble that she had gotten into. That’s all. I believe she’s still there.”

“And you took care of her too?”

“I did.”

“Do you take care of everybody but yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

The question came so suddenly and Holmes found himself thrown again. He seemed to just be having an off night.

“I… I wouldn’t say that,” Holmes stuttered, almost embarrassed.

Mary smiled to herself, a half a smirk almost. “I haven’t thrown you off guard, have I?”

Holmes straightened up again and gave Mary a face. “I am rarely thrown,” Holmes said. “Though I admit I was surprised when I learned of Wat- Marian’s first name.”

“Why?” Mary asked, “I thought promised he’d name our child after you.”

“He told me he’d name his _son_ after me,” Holmes said with a smile.

“Well, we ended up with a daughter,” Mary said. She twisted her mouth. “You should have known John would keep his promise, regardless of the gender.”

“She’s lovely girl,” Holmes added in an oddly serious way. “A perfect combination of both her parents and a grand human being.”

Mary only nodded. She already knew this.

“She's going to go very far in this world, Sherlock,” she said. She used his first name and Holmes found he didn’t mind at all. “You should keep a close eye on her.”

Sherlock Holmes curled his lips into the grin that he was best known for. He assured Mary Watson that he’d look out for her, and she believed him. After all, John Watson wasn’t the only man to keep his promises…


End file.
